


Unnamed Work #867

by Euleogy



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Civil War Questline Conclusion, Empire wins, Ulfric loses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euleogy/pseuds/Euleogy
Summary: I based this off of Castle by Halsey. I highly recommend listening to that before, during, and/or after reading this.
I feel like it needs more polishing but it's been sitting completed in my docs for the last two months, so I hit my limit and I'm pretty much just posting it.





	

          Olephea frowned in her sleep as she slowly regained consciousness, a small groan crossing the barrier of her lips as her eyes opened slowly. She grunted, blinking back the sun and went to raise her hand to rub the sand from her eyes only to find she was bound at the wrists. She was trying to recollect what she remembered last, why she was there, when a strongly accented Nord voice spoke to her.

 

          "Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

 

          She gave her head another shake to clear it, her eyes closed still.

 

          "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.”

 

          The second voice softened before it continued, seeming to be addressing her.

 

          “You there... You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

 

          Stormcloaks. Of course, that rebellion her ‘Uncle’ had started. The Nord replied for her.

 

          "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

 

         She couldn’t stop the snort from escaping her mouth at that particular sentiment. Of course, it was then that the Imperial who must have been guiding the carriage yelled back at them all to shut up. With her luck, he’d probably blame the female for the obviously male voices. She opened her eyes, still blinking back the sun slightly. The Nord across from her was too attractive for his own good. Shame a piece of muscle like that was going to be put to the block. At that thought, though, Olephea heaved a sigh. The Block. Damn it, if she was here with them, then it was the end of the line. No relation to Stormcloak would help her here, even if they were estranged.

 

          "And what's wrong with him, huh?"

 

          She turned to the right to see who the horse thief was talking about, and she nearly fell over. Ulfric Stormcloak. It had been ten years since she’d seen him. Ten years, and he’d barely changed. He looked more haunted, sure, but otherwise, he looked just like she remembered. This was only confirmed when the Nord replied.

 

          "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

 

          That settled it, they were going to die. If they had her uncle, then they were all of them about to die. Ulfric didn’t look at her, but she had no doubt that he had no idea who he shared a carriage with.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


          “I said no. Your… _wife_ and child can stay in the Inn. Even as my half-brother, I would do you the honor of staying in my house, but I’ll not have your imperial wife and child in my presence any longer than I have to stomach it. I want the both of them gone.”

 

          A younger Olephea felt ready to cry. Of course, her father had warned her about her uncle. Said it wasn’t that he was prejudice, but that he was just betrayed by the Empire, that he had things to work through. That it wasn’t anything personal. All the pretty words in the world couldn’t shake her own personal betrayal at having her blood talk about her like she was a disease, an infestation.

 

          Her mother, also insulted, spoke up.

 

          “And just what have me and my child done to harbor resentment, Sir? You don’t know us, but your brother loves us, and you would throw that in his own face for nothing but your grudge with people who most certainly don’t know of us!”

 

          Ulfric glared down at her mother, as Olephea at fifteen clenched her hands into the skirts of her dress.

 

          “ _Half_ -Brother. That makes your child less related to me than my own men as far as I’m concerned. My men are all at least Nords. You really ought to keep that pretty little mouth of your closed in my presence if you know what’s best for you.”

 

          Her father had stiffened at the thinly veiled threat. The small family had been on their way down from Winterhold, planning to travel to Cyrodiil and stay with her mother’s family. It was likely that their reason for visiting had somehow insulted the temperamental Stormcloak, but to threaten a defenseless woman like that, especially one married to his own blood? That was an insult her father hadn’t taken lightly.

 

          “Thank you, for the hospitality, Jarl Ulfric, but I will stay with my wife and child in the Inn.”

 

          Ulfric had seemed unhappy with this. Looking back she wondered if he had planned to try to convince her father to leave her and her mother on their own, and stay with him instead. She thought it was entirely possible. They had stayed at the Inn for the night, as a family, and had then continued on their way to Cyrodiil. They had settled in the small town of Cheydinhal, on a small farm down the road from her mother’s family, who had been infinitely more welcoming.

 

          When she had become a grown woman, she had traveled the empire, doing small odd jobs and trying to decide just what she wanted to do with her life. When she travelled back home, it was in answer to a letter her mother had sent, telling her that her father had taken ill and passed away. She mourned him as she travelled home, and was given the few things he’d left her, as most of his estate remained with her mother. Among those things were some Nord trinkets that must have meant something to him, as well as a letter.

 

          His hand had shaken slightly as he wrote it, likely from the illness that took him.

 

_ ‘My dear Olephea. You take more after your old pa than your mother even realizes. When I was young and adventurous, I went travelling on my own as well. It was how I met your mother, and convinced her to return to the snow-covered lands of Skyrim with me. As you know, it was cold and harsh, and your mother ached to return home. I know you remember the land of your birth well enough, and I know you missed it terribly, especially our first few years in the Imperial Province. _

 

_ These things I have left you are of no large value, but they are things I had been given when I was a young man, before I took off on my own. You’ll find a small dagger, made in the Nordic style. It’s not as fine as the steel of the empire, but it served me well in my travels, and your grandmother had saved for two months to buy it as a present for me. You’ll find an amulet of Talos, that I have never told your mother I kept, but that I still wore under my tunic as I worked. Finally, you’ll find a small gold ring, inlaid with precious stones, and containing the sigil of Eastmarch. This is the ring I received from my father, when he found out I was his son. I’m told Ulfric has a matching one. It was the only proof I ever had that I was related to the great Bear of Eastmarch. _

 

_ I know your only memory of Ulfric is a bad one, but with that ring, perhaps the years have softened his heart, and he could help you accomplish whatever dreams you decide to aspire to. If he turns out to still be the man he was ten years ago, then by all means sell the useless piece of metal and return to your mother. Be careful with the amulet, you never know where people’s loyalties lie. I love you, and will always love you. Should I make it to Sovngarde, then I will speak of you to your grandfather. _

 

_ I am at peace. ~Pa’ _

 

          At first, there had been tears. Then there had been anger. Anger at the illness. Anger at the doctors for not saving her father. Anger at Stormcloak for his behavior and how her father still had hope for him. Anger for the Nords who followed him and didn’t consider her a Nord, when to this day she’d still lived longer in Skyrim than Cyrodiil. Just Anger. Then there was the stubbornness she inherited from her father. She would travel to Skyrim, she would use this ring, and she would prove to Ulfric that she was just as worthy of Skyrim and her people as he was, and her blood had nothing to do with her heart.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


          She was free. The dragon had done it’s deed. She had wandered her way half-blind through dark tunnels and along shaking passageways with nothing but her breath and heartbeat to remind her that she was alive. The few belongings she had crossed the border with had been in a chest on the carriage she was tied in, and as the black shadow had throw it’s fireballs, she had thrown on her simple leather garb over top her rags, and shoved her other belongings into her pockets. She’d run, finding that the soldiers were too distracted to do much of anything about it. Into the keep, hoping that the old building would hold. Down, underneath the aged building, past the bodies of the Stormcloak soldiers and Imperial soldiers who had died at arms with each other. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d thought of how stupid this war was, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  
  


* * *

  
  


          "Well Ulfric, you can't escape from me this time. Any last requests before I send you to... to wherever you people go when you die."

 

          Olephea frowned, but didn’t correct him, instead it was Legate Rikke who spoke. Olephea had come to greatly respect the woman. She was a true Nord, and a true citizen of the Empire. She proved that you could, in fact, be both.

 

          "Sovngarde... sir."

 

          "Right. Well?"

 

          As Rikke was preparing her sword for the blow, Ulfric spoke.

 

          “Let the Dragonborn be the one to do it. It'll make for a better song."

 

          "Song or not, I just want it done."

 

          Olephea took a breath, fighting back a sad laugh at the fact that Ulfric still didn’t know who was she was.

 

          “General Tullius, with all due respect, I have personal connection to Stormcloak and would not see him dead yet.”

 

          Ulfric looked at her appraisingly, still unable to recognize her. Tullius seemed more tired than anything.

 

          “Just what connection might that be, Holfdotter?”

 

          She hated the way he said her name, but now wasn’t the time to pick at the man.

 

          “A shared relation. Just as you said, my name is Holf-Daughter. My father was Holf, no family name. His father was the Bear of Eastmarch. His mother was a Breton with no name and no family ties, but more importantly she was not married to his father.”

 

          Olephea held out her left hand, where on her finger there was still the same gold band that she’d worn since her father’s death, not out of respect for the blood of Ulfric, but for the love she had for her father.

 

          “Ulfric Stormcloak is my uncle.”

 

          Tullius’ face may have looked surprised, but no one looked more shocked in that moment than Stormcloak himself. Just as he was about to sputter out a retort, likely insisting that she was no blood of his, she turned back to Tullius from how she’d been facing the traitor.

 

          “With respect, I’d like to incarcerate him and give him a more formal judgement at a later time.”

 

          Tullius gave the words pause, and nodded, looking to Rikke.

 

          “Rikke, take as many soldiers as you think will be needed to guard Stormcloak, and escort him to his own dungeons. I’d like to speak with the Dragonborn.”

 

          “Of course, Sir.”

 

          With a salute she was off obeying her orders, rightly lifting the defeated ‘High King’ and walking him out his own doors.

 

          “Holf-Daughter… You are the Niece of Ulfric Stormcloak. You have been loyal to the Empire even considering your… turbulent introduction to me and my men when you returned to Skyrim. As such, would you accept to run Windhelm in your Uncle’s place, as Jarl?”

 

          Olephea paused. This was what she had wanted. She had decided two years ago, when she first came to Skyrim, when she and Ulfric both escaped the clutches of her own Empire, that she would make him pay. That she would take his title from him, and that she would trample his revolt to the dust. Discovering her gift for the voice had only solidified in her the belief that the gods agreed with her goals. And now here she was, those goals within her grasp.

 

          She smiled, showing as much gratitude as she could.

 

          “Of course, General Tullius. I would be honored.”

 

          The General nodded, and together they walked out of the throne room. To the gathered throng of soldiers, Tullius made his speech to his men.

 

          “Let this day be a final warning to those who still call themselves Stormcloaks! We are turning the city over to Olephea Holfdotter, Niece to Ulfric Stormcloak and loyal citizen of the Empire! You may recognize her as the Dragonborn, who has made our victory possible! With that said, I am honored to call her Jarl of Windhelm! Many of you will be staying in Windhelm to aid the Jarl in restoring order and stamping out any embers of rebellion that may still smolder here! In appreciation for your exemplary service, I am doubling your pay and compensation for the widows of your fallen comrades!"

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


          It had been 4 weeks since their success in taking back Skyrim for the Empire. Four weeks of restoring order and gaining the loyalty of those who were skeptical of Olephea’s claim to Windhelm, even considering that the General himself had made her Jarl. Especially those in Windhelm who were still of the belief that only a true Nord was worth following.

 

          Most of those who held that belief didn’t make it known. They were smarter than that. They didn’t outwardly rebel, but they didn’t conform either. Knowing she couldn’t earn their love and respect as quickly as would be needed to maintain control of her new position, Olephea settled for the next best thing; Fear.

 

          “Ulfric Stormcloak, former Jarl of Windhelm, self-proclaimed Former High King of Skyrim, Leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion, and enemy of the Empire. What say you in your defense?”

 

          Ulfric took the opportunity to spit at the ground at her feet. He knelt in front of her in rags and chains, whilst she, wearing the mantle of Windhelm, sat on the throne.

 

          “You may have the smallest amount of my blood in your veins, but you are no Nord. You are not of Skyrim. You have no respect for our ways.”

 

          Olephea cocked her head to the side, sighing slightly and pulling out the necklace that she still wore around her neck. She didn’t worship Talos. She honestly didn’t worship any of the 9 gods anymore. In her dealings with the Daedric Princes, she found it hard to claim affection for a being who kept to the sidelines. But the token did have the desired effect. Some claimed her a traitor to the empire. Some claimed that she tainted the holy symbol.

 

          “This amulet was given to me by my father, as well as the ring he received from his father. Marking me as your blood, and marking my heritage as just as Nordic as yours. Don’t mistake my keeping of the necklace as worship. I keep it for my father, who did honor Talos with his dying breath. I have spent most of my life in Skyrim. I was born in Skyrim. For no reason have you to claim I’m no Nord.”

 

          She let her words rest for a moment before taking a breath.

 

          “Ulfric, do you acknowledge the claims made against you in this court?”

 

          “Yes, and I will stand for those beliefs with my dying breath.”

 

          “Well, it is my hope that your dying breath is a long way away. Ulfric, for using your power of the voice to kill the former High King of Skyrim, you will be stripped of it. Ulfric, for your crimes, you will have your pretty little mouth sewn shut.”

 

          There was silence in the court. If Ulfric recognized the words, he didn’t react to them. The court itself was frozen. The wealthy and poor of Windhelm alike didn’t know what to think of her declaration.

 

          “Ulfric, you are my Uncle, and as such will be kept in rooms in the palace, in comfort. But for your crimes, you will never leave this palace. You will remain with sealed lips in your rooms until the day you die.”

 

          With a nod to the guards to show that she was finished with her sentencing, the guards began to lead their prisoner away.

 

          “Wait, where are you going? Ulfric is to stay in the palace, is he not?”

 

          With a gesture, a man wearing a grim face and mage’s robes walked forward, producing a needle, a wire thread, and a cloth.

 

          “The wire is enchanted. It will not be ripped, severed, or torn from your lips. It will also prevent you from using what little voice you can to summon a worthy thu’um. At best, you would only hurt yourself.”

 

          With a nod to the mage, he laid the linen on the floor of the court. With another nod to the guards, the soldiers began to lay Ulfric’s head over it, their discomfort evident in their movements. If Ulfric had any thoughts, he would keep them to himself until such time as he decided to write them down. He was a brave man. Even as the mage began sewing his mouth such, with enough give for soup and water to be consumed, the former Jarl of Windhelm made no sound.

 

          When the deed was done, he was sat up and taken back, to the right of the throne, up to the palace rooms. Olephea had had a bath drawn for him, and nice, comfortable clothes laid out. He would live well, but he would rarely, if ever, see the outside of the room she’d given him. She would not make a martyr of the man who still had the loyalty of hundreds , if not thousands.

  
          Pleased with herself, she stood from her throne, those who were sitting in attendance standing as well out of courtesy. Only time would tell what would happen now. If they would rebel, or respect her. If neither of those, then she could at least count on their fear of her creativity.

**Author's Note:**

> I based this off of Castle by Halsey. I highly recommend listening to that before, during, and/or after reading this.
> 
> I feel like it needs more polishing but it's been sitting completed in my docs for the last two months, so I hit my limit and I'm pretty much just posting it.


End file.
